


Diminutive

by Jaded_Girl_83



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Endearments, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pillow Talk, Post-Coital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14797994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaded_Girl_83/pseuds/Jaded_Girl_83
Summary: “Tenderness is greater proof of love than the most passionate of vows.” Marlene Dietrich





	Diminutive

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Late December, Back In '63](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13262922) by [diadema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema). 



> Macavity the cat and the trio’s chateau have been shamelessly borrowed from the incomparable diadema! <3 
> 
> Translations for non-English words are below. All errors are mine.

Gaby collapses on top of Illya’s chest, reveling in the afterglow and trying to catch her breath. The broad plane of muscle beneath her heaves her up and down like a boat on the waves, the rush of breath in his lungs like the roar of the sea. His large hands come up around her to whisper across her bare back—hands capable of tearing a room to pieces but gentle, oh so gentle, whenever they touch her. She shivers at the sensation and wriggles her way up his torso until she can rest her face in the crook of his neck, arms and legs locked around him. She kisses his shoulder for good measure.

His deep chuckle reverberates through her, humming in her bones. _“Schmusemäuschen,”_ he rumbles, borrowing the pet name she frequently bestows upon Macavity, feline monarch of Eme, the lovely English chateau that serves as the trio’s home base. 

She lifts her head just enough for him to see her stick out her tongue, then settles back down with a smile on her face. Terms of endearment are frequently bandied about among the three of them. Illya and Solo exchange their born-from-insult “Peril” and “Cowboy” nicknames, as grown men who like each other and do not wish to admit it are prone to do. She is not exempt from affectionate teasing either, though it is only Illya who calls her “Little Chop Shop.” She, in turn, exacts her revenge by bestowing on them (and Waverly, and any cute animal crossing her path) whatever whimsical German endearments strike her fancy. German pet names have a rather peculiar flavor, and she delights in Illya’s confused frowns and Solo’s bemused eyebrow quirks as they mentally translate the endearments to their literal meanings.

Still, it seems a shame to limit herself to one language.

It was Solo who had first told her about diminutives—the Russian kind. Gaby had wanted to laugh because there was nothing 'small' whatsoever about them. Instead, the nicknames would frequently and bewilderingly _extend_ a person's name by any number of syllables. This odd linguistic quirk might be ridiculous, but the thought of applying any so-called ‘diminutive’ to a six-foot-five man of iron is a case study in absolute absurdity. The incongruity was too delicious, and she has wanted to try one on Illya ever since. 

She fights back a mischievous smile as her lips brush against his earlobe, and she whispers.

“Illyusha.”

Beneath her, his entire body goes rigid. She blinks, surprised at the reaction, but not necessarily disappointed; if there is one thing she delights in more than teasing Illya, it’s riling him.

But no, something is wrong. 

He has stopped breathing; the ocean she floats on has frozen solid. 

Concerned, she cranes her neck to look at him. But his arms wrap around her, and he squeezes so tightly that her breath catches. His head buries deep into her shoulder, and his entire body starts to shake.

Her throat goes dry in a way that has nothing to do with her now-shallow breathing. He draws her ever closer to him, the press of his face painful against her collarbone. He implodes— _collapses_ —all around her, makes himself small, so very, very small.

Distressed and perplexed, she strokes his hair, more reflex than conscious action. He usually calms under her soothing, but tonight he only shakes more. Hot tears pool on her skin and slowly trail down her chest. A ragged breath erupts from him, an expulsion of air full of pain. This wordless cry is what finally makes her understand.

How long has it been since someone has spoken an endearment to him in his mother tongue?

Growing up under the _Stasi_ , she knows all too well how quickly the bonds of friendship and love can be abandoned. She remembers walking along rows of buildings, wondering how many hidden eyes were watching her, waiting for an opportunity to inform on friend and foe alike. And she had been a nobody, the anonymous daughter of a harmless mechanic. But Illya… 

Gaby feels her throat tighten. A traitor’s son would have been poison to the neighborhood, to the other children, even to other family members. Illya was a constant threat of guilt-by-association; any sympathy shown to him no different from tacit approval of his father’s crimes. Loyalty to the State superseded any and all other allegiances or higher impulses, and one misstep—one act of kindness—might be repaid with a one-way trip to the Gulag. The last person to speak Illya’s name with affection, to address him fondly and softly was probably his mother; no doubt the _only_ one to do so for most of his life.

Gaby lives her life under her nickname. It feels more like her _real_ name than her full, given name does. She has lost touch with the concept of a nickname connoting warmth or intimacy. Or tenderness.

Tenderness can break a heart more quickly than cruelty.

It is a quiet epiphany. The sort of knowledge that Gaby has always instinctively known was there, noted in some tucked away part of herself but not earth-shattering at the moment of consciousness. There is no surprise in the discovery; only a brief feeling of satisfaction to find another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

She has known the world’s cruelty from a young age. It has lost some of its power to affect her, but love… love is far more rare and far more unsettling.

And Illya knows all of this even better than she does. 

His is a deep wound, a long-standing hunger that makes him come so undone beneath her. She feels a pang of self-reproach that she considered the endearment little more than a joke. But she _does_ mean it: the warmth, the intimacy. She wants to use these names again—over and over, as many as she can find—now that they mean as much to her as they do to him. She cards her fingers through his hair, turns her head to his ear, and says again, very deliberately.

“Illyusha.”

Tender. Purposeful. _Possessive._

He freezes again, but not like the rigid shock of his first reaction. There is a sense of disbelief to this stillness, unspoken questions of “how” and “why” that make her ache. She knows that even as he comes to terms with the fact that someone holds him dear enough to use his diminutive, that stubborn self-loathing, that State-sponsored inferiority complex, will continue to eat away at him until he has rationalized away her intentions. 

She is as stubborn as he is, though, and is prepared fight back with both word and deed. So she kisses whatever part of him her lips can reach, and settles her head upon him with a soft sigh, and resolves to use his diminutives often. Only when they are alone, of course, and no more tonight; his emotions are still too raw to endure hearing it again. So she whispers other things, and strokes his hair, and does her best to relax with half-crushed lungs. She holds them both, soothes them both—the injured child and the aching man who has learned to be stoic to survive. Eventually, his breathing steadies. Eventually, his arms loosen their death grip around her, though he does not release her for the rest of the night.

But he is still awake when she finally falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Schmusemäuschen_  
>  Term of endearment, literal translation: little cuddle/smooch mouse  
> Rough pronunciation: SHMOO-seh-MOYSH-yen (yin?)  
> 


End file.
